


Almost

by Desade



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desade/pseuds/Desade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short little sad headcanon I had about Bucky in his days leading up to the events of Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

Bucky choosing Bucharest because something about the city reminds him of Brooklyn, and he feels safer because of it. He thinks ( _hopes?_ ) that the crowds will hide him; that he can lose himself in the warren of back streets and alleyways should a threat ever appear.

He took the tiny, one room flat for several reasons.

It was on the top floor, offering a good vantage point for when he was feeling paranoid, and at the end of a long, narrow staircase, so a large force wouldn’t be able to overwhelm him all at once. Best of all, there were two entrances. A somewhat flimsy wooden back door, and a far sturdier steel one at the front of the room.

He hoped that when they came ( _and he knew they would, eventually_ ) that they would approach from the front, giving him a few extra precious seconds to make his escape.

Within 72 hours of his arrival he managed to familiarize himself with the majority of the residents, assessing the threat posed by each in turn. None escaped his circumspect eye; from the octogenarian on the first floor with his penchant for feeding pigeons from the building stoop, to the young, quiet woman across the hall from Bucky’s own flat.

Slowly, over the span of several weeks, he allowed himself to relax the slightest bit. Not far enough to settle into a routine, but to, at least, stop expecting Mrs. Florescu from the third floor to suddenly pull a handgun from her overstuffed purse and take a shot at him.

It wasn’t a perfect refuge, but it was the safest he’d felt since…he couldn’t remember when.

=======================================

Bucky hurried home from the market one day, bags in hand and taking the stairs two at a time in his rush to be back in his spartan psuedo-sanctuary. As he crested the last landing, the door to his right opened, and someone rushed out, crashing into his side before uttering a startled cry.

Heat flooded through his system, his instincts screaming **‘DANGER!’** even as the bags slipped from his grasp, spilling that week’s groceries onto the floor. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he took a deep breath, readying himself for the fight ahead.

But it was just the girl from across the hall, blinking up owlishly at him, cheeks red with embarrassment.

She clutched a textbook in one hand and offered an apology in halting, stilted Romanian, the sound of which instantly washed the thought from his mind of how close he’d just come to tossing her over the railing.

“Your accent,” he murmured as he willed his fists to unclench. “New York?”

“Queens,” she blurted out, surprise etched on her face. “I didn’t know you spoke English.”

Bucky mentally cursed himself for letting that slip, and crouched down to retrieve his errant groceries, holding his silence.

She went to her knees beside him, helping to gather up his items as she continued on, “Sorry I ran into you. I was in too much of a hurry, as usual, and wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s alright,” he replied slowly. “No harm done.”

“Except to your eggs,” she huffed, holding up the battered carton, a mixture of albumen and yolk dripping from one corner. She gave him a mournful look. “God, I _suck_ at making a good first impression.”

“I didn’t need all twelve anyway,” Bucky said, taking the carton from her and stuffing it into the bag. “Don’t worry about it,” he finished as he clambered to his feet and turned toward his door.

Once inside, he leaned back against the comforting chill of steel, wondering if he needed to cut and run. His survival instincts said yes, but he was so fucking tired of running…and this small space of his felt more like a home than anything he’d had in years. He was reluctant to leave it behind and make a fresh start.

His gaze settled on the boards above his hidden bug-out bag, and he reassured himself that, if it came to it, he could be gone in an instant. They didn’t call him a ghost for nothing.

But even ghosts need a place to haunt.

=======================================

Later that night, as he scribbled his thoughts into a well worn notebook, a soft knock sounded at his door. Bucky went still, senses on high alert. There was a quiet shuffling from behind steel, and then the muted sound of footsteps followed by a door opening and closing nearby.

The clumsy girl from before.

He waited the better part of an hour before he approached the door and cracked it open a few inches. There, on his threshold, was a fresh carton of eggs with a note on top. He scooped it up and retreated back into his flat, carefully unfolding the piece of paper.

_“Sorry again about the eggs,” it read. “I wouldn’t have felt right unless I replaced them. No hard feelings?_

_~Sarah”_

Bucky frowned at the note for a long moment before huffing out a short breath. He crossed the room and put the eggs in the refrigerator, then paused at the trash can, holding the note over the bin.

“You’re going soft, old man,” he chided himself…but tucked the piece of paper into his notebook, nonetheless.

=======================================

Several days later, as Bucky was leaving his apartment, Sarah stepped out onto the landing.

“Hey, neighbor,” she said. “Did you get the eggs I left you?”

“I did,” Bucky returned. “It was appreciated, but not necessary.”

“Pfft,” Sarah retorted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘You break it, you buy it’?”

“Didn’t know that applied to things that _other_ people had _already_ bought.”

“My mother raised me to be polite, I guess,” she answered with a smile.

“Well, thanks again,” Bucky said, as he moved toward the stairs.

“Hey, hang on a minute,” Sarah called. “I was wondering if you weren’t busy later, maybe you’d want to come to dinner? I have a bottle of wine and way too much pasta for one person.”

Bucky froze on the top step, his mind racing. He hadn’t really had any one on one interactions since he ran from Hydra ( _was it a trap? was she an operative just biding her time?)._ He wasn’t sure what to say to the offer.

“Nothing creepy, I promise,” she hurried to explain as the silence stretched on. “It gets kinda lonely studying abroad, y’know? And it would be nice to talk to someone from the States. Maybe make a new friend?”

Her words struck a chord with him, turning his apprehension on its ear. He vaguely remembered friends. Remembered the easy conversation, the joking and laughter. Remembered having a person to turn to instead of going it alone. And he realized then, that if he was going to do more than simply haunt these halls, then he would have to learn to trust again.

He had to start somewhere, and this seemed as good a place as any.

“I could do that,” he answered slowly.

“Great!” Sarah exclaimed. “Come by around six? That’ll give me time to start the sauce.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, turning to meet her gaze with a small smile. “Oh, and do you need anything from the market? I was just heading out to get some plums.”


End file.
